On Tuesday, we were in Wharfedale having returned to a place with all kinds of memories. Villages where happy days had been spent, places with familiar names from my childhood and most recently, somewhere where we'd been last October when we received bad news and from where we had to rush away.
On the third Tuesday of January last year, we had the call we feared but expected and we rushed to Mummy's bedside to spend the last days with her. It was the following Tuesday, the 22nd when the last call came, at 4.45am. Of course, in many ways, we'd lost her so much earlier, the previous August, when she was so badly affected by a stroke.
But today is the anniversary of her death and the date on the certificate. The 22nd January. And I know just what she'd have said - it's just another day.
She's right, of course. I don't need to mark a significant date to remember her. I'm not sure that I feel any different today than I did yesterday, last Tuesday, last August Bank Holiday, because both parents are there in my mind a good deal of the time.
Sometimes, like now, the thought brings a tear to my eye.
But most of all, I am simply thankful that I have so many very happy memories to hang on to.
They'll still be there tomorrow.
